Anonymous Contact
by Cr1mson5
Summary: The best contract they'd ever received became the worst nightmare they'd ever faced.
1. Prologue: Tragedy

**List of things I own: Plot, the stupid stuff I made up in my screwed-up imagination**

**List of things I don't own: Characters involved and anything else copyrighted to and/or owned by DC Comics**

**Rating: T for my standard stuff**

When Bruce was young, he learned the meaning of tragedy.

The grimy alleyway mixed inky black shadow and dirt with crimson blood so well that one would almost think they were meant to mingle. Something crunched underneath his feet as he stumbled forward toward his parents, and it might've been his mother's pearls, forgotten in the frenzy of screams and violence and fear. He slipped on something—maybe water, maybe blood—and crawled over to Mommy, who was sprawled out like a dead bird, to Daddy, whose white dress shirt was soaked in the warm, red stickiness of his own life. Bruce's pants were saturated with it, and his tears dripped down into it. Where were the police? Where were the paramedics? Surely somebody had heard it, had called for help.

Another twenty minutes of kneeling next to his parents' lifeless bodies convinced him otherwise.

In the days that followed, he met a lot of adults that apparently had something to do with his parents. It seemed like the whole city knew Thomas and Martha Wayne. But when they wanted to shake his hand, he just stared at theirs. When they wanted to ask him questions, he remained silent. And they all reacted the same way, too. They would all look at him with these sad smiles and faintly watery eyes, shaking their heads. They would all say to one another, behind his back, "Poor little Bruce. It's hardened his heart already."

They had no idea how right they were.

Time went on. He grew older, he grew colder, and everything around him changed before he realized it. The manor had become peaceful, and somewhere along the line he became its only occupant, about the same time that another tombstone was added to the family plot out back. The painful clamor in his mind and heart had quieted. But Gotham City, and the world itself, only proceeded to gradually get worse until, at last, Bruce took notice. And something…else within him was awakened, something much more cunning and sinister.

That something was the first of his demons.

It drove him across the globe, searching for God only knew what. Perhaps he wanted inner peace; perhaps he only wanted to perpetuate a war he could not win. And everywhere he went, every would-be mentor he sought out, always carried the same attitude toward this phantom feeling. It was all really very tragic, how often he was told he was pursuing an insane goal. Nobody seemed to understand him. Nobody seemed to care.

Then, chance—or maybe it was fate—took him to an old master of a near-forgotten martial art in Taiwan who spoke to him of a certain Ra's al Ghul.

And Bruce realized that he was looking for purpose, purpose that Ra's could give to him.

Perhaps the world wasn't as hopeless as he'd thought.


	2. Package

"Get up, Dick."

The gruff voice growling at me from overhead assured me that I'd gotten eight hours of sleep, as unlikely as it seemed. The pounding of an unusually hard pillow on my back the next second reminded me who was waking me up.

I swung an arm around, trying to shoo away the annoying presence of my next-to-youngest practically-brother. "Go away," I grumbled.

"Someone's on the phone."

"So? Have Tim get it."

"It's for you, dude."

I sighed, finally relenting and sitting up. Jason stood next to the bed, his hands shoved in the pockets of his gray sweatshirt and his red hair sticking out in every direction imaginable to frame his scowling face. Jason was only ever like this—well, pretty much always. But despite his asshole tendencies, he was my brother, a necessary addition to the team, and I'd learned over the years to tolerate his attitude.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, letting the covers fall away onto the floor. "There," I said. "Are you satisfied?"

"Just hurry up," Jason snapped, stalking off. "She won't stay on hold forever."

I followed him down from the second floor, listening to the sounds that wafted up the stairs toward me. I could hear Lynx singing a soft, lilting tune in Cantonese over a sound like sizzling meat on the stove. There were the harsh impacts of knuckles and feet with a punching bag, probably from Cass. Stephanie was on the phone, slowly reciting the seventh mailing address of the year to a client on the other line. And, of course, there was, underneath it all, the near-inaudible sound of the turning pages of Tim's latest new read.

Oh, yeah. It was definitely my kind of morning.

I trailed sluggishly after Jason with more than a few yawns, pausing to ruffle Tim's hair as I went past him. He barely registered it, making some sort of grunting noise that I assumed was a standard Timmy response to affectionate touch. Before I knew it, Jason was thrusting my cell phone into my hand, I was holding it up to my ear, and my lips were forming words. "Hello? Who's this?"

"_Hey, Dick, it's me."_

I couldn't stop my smile as I leaned against the wall. "Oh, hey, Babs; what's up?"

"_I was wondering if I could meet you for lunch later. I have a package for you."_

"Sure." I glanced at the clock. It was nine-thirty already. "How's twelve-thirty sound?"

"_Eleven would make me smile."_

I sighed. "Okay, fine, eleven it is. See you then."

"_See you."_

Pretty much the second I hung up, Tim was twisting around on the couch, tugging an earbud from his left ear and giving a tiny, almost tentative smile. "You going on a date with Babs again?" he asked, as light-heartedly as was possible for him.

I smiled/grimaced at him. "It's not a date. It's a meeting. She said she had a package for me."

"Uh-huh," Steph cut in, smirking at me from across the room, the phone still pressed to her ear. "That's why you've got that airhead look on your face. Admit it, Dick; it's a date."

"It's _Babs_," I corrected.

"As if that wasn't synonymous," Tim remarked, sliding back down into a comfortable position on the couch so he could finish reading. _You little…_

"It's just Babs."

Jason smacked me on the arm with a _People_ magazine issue and said, "It's kind of like Edward and Bella. Everybody already knows the dream lovers are together. Drop the act." He went to take a seat on the couch next to Tim, picking up the boy's feet and dumping them rather unceremoniously onto the floor before flopping down beside him. Tim didn't even seem to notice. The only acknowledgement of the action that he offered up was a tiny snort of annoyance.

Lynx thrust a plate of sausage and eggs under my nose. "Eat before you go," she insisted. "You've still got time to kill before eleven."

I smiled and took the plate from her. "Yes, Mother," I joked, heading to the table. Steph was sitting back down there, still talking to the client. I started eating regardless, knowing she probably wouldn't care much. The unmistakable tingling on my right side combined with the slight smell of sweat alerted me that Cass was taking her seat beside me. She picked at her food a little bit before starting to eat, taking small, precise bites…kind of a normal thing for her. I guess Tim was rubbing off on her a little bit, the amount of time those two spent hanging out together.

I glanced around, noticing that we were still short one person. I turned to Cass and asked, "Have you seen Helena this morning?" She nodded past my shoulder, and I turned to see the woman in question approaching the table.

She draped her arms around my neck and squeezed in an awkward sort of hug. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty," she remarked. "You gonna shower before you take off? I mean, you kind of smell like the whole zoo crapped on you."

"Ha, ha," I replied, hugging her back. "Yes, I'm gonna take a quick one and then head off to meet Babs for lunch."

Helena slipped into an empty chair next to Steph, grinning at me. "Ooh, Mr. Grayson. Lunch with the love of your life, I see."

"Don't even start."

Lynx had somehow managed to drag Jason and Tim in from the living room, just in time for Tim to comment, "You'd better have saved enough money from the last contract to take her someplace nice. All the shit Babs does for you, God knows the poor girl deserves it."

Jason playfully nudged Tim's arm. "That's my boy."

I have to admit that even I laughed a little bit, even though I tried to hide it behind a bite of egg.

You know, if anybody else had glanced around that table, they would've seen our motley crew and wondered what the hell we had to do with one another. They would've wondered why we cared so much. And it didn't take a genius to tell them it was because we all understood each other. We were on a level nobody else could even touch. Simple enough as it is to explain, we were…family. We were an honest-to-God family, if not in the conventional sense, but we still cared. I guess it was because it anchored us, but I always thought of it as just second nature. We needed each other, we acknowledged the need, and we made sure it never had to eat at us again.

About an hour later, I was showered, dressed, and ready to go. I was half out the door before I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Helena there, looking a little…disconcerted, if I wasn't mistaken. "What is it, sis?" I asked.

"I just…" She trailed off for a moment. "Don't get too cozy with Babs, okay? If anybody ever found out…she could get hurt—again."

I sighed, pushing my hair back from my face. "Helena, everything's gonna be fine. I mean, look at you guys. Nothing's happened to you."

"Can I just go ahead and tack 'yet' onto the end of that statement? And besides, we're trained. Babs is—"

"I get it, Helena. I'll be careful." I leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. "You're in charge until I get back."

She rolled her eyes at me. "Don't get caught by the cops, Mr. Eighty-Miles-Per."

I ignored the dig and headed out to the car. The little white 1990 Camaro RS sat in the driveway, looking innocent as ever. I walked around it a few times, checked for anything…suspicious…before I got in and started off. Taking the scenic route to Babs' place proved to be a little more interesting than usual; it seemed the GCPD was picking up yet another drug dealer out of Park Row. And this guy was actually somebody that I recognized; he owned an out-of-the-way sort of thrift store I used to shop at sometimes. I shook my head in dismay. There are some things you just don't do for any reason, no matter who's counting on you.

Babs was waiting for me when I got to her apartment. She came to the door smirking and remarked, "There's no minute like the last one, huh?"

I bent down to give her a kiss. "Oh, c'mon, you know you love how I procrastinate."

"I love a lot of things about you, Dick, but that's not one of them."

Having been through this plenty of times, I had getting Babs into the car, getting the wheelchair into the back, and doing it all quickly down to a practical science. I was getting in when Babs said, "I appreciate you doing this."

I shrugged, pulling on my seatbelt. "I don't mind," I told her.

Babs snorted. "It's just because I'm the only reason you get paid on time."

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, grimacing in disappointment. "You know that's not true. I love you, Babs. I always will."

It was quiet until we reached the restaurant—Italian, Babs' favorite. The conversation finally picked back up when we were seen to by a waiter and seated. Babs smiled at me over the top of her menu. "I'm surprised you had enough money left for such a classy place, Dick."

"What can I say?" I retorted, lifting my glass to get a drink. "I have siblings that keep track of this stuff for me."

She gave a chuckle and turned to retrieve her bag from the floor beside her wheelchair. "How my dad still thinks you're a decent guy is beyond me."

"Hey, I _am_ a decent guy. It's Jason that's unbearably asshole-ish."

Babs reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope, reaching across the table to hand it to me. "This came in the mail last night. I figured I'd hand it off…if you're still interested, that is."

I took it from her gingerly, a little uncertain. "You know I'm always interested in another portfolio." I tucked it under the placemat. "Who sent this one?"

Babs shook her head. "I don't know; I didn't have any luck tracing the return address. None of my software could find this guy, whoever he is."

"What do you think that means?"

She shrugged, taking a sip of her water. "It could be a trap. It could be somebody who's just as paranoid as you. Or it could just be somebody messing with us. It wouldn't be the first anonymous contact we've ever had."

"That's true." I gazed across the restaurant, taking stock of my surroundings and trying to come up with a good response. "Should we look into it anyway?"

"You're the leader here, so it's your decision, but…I say go for it. It's not like we haven't taken the risk before. And even if this one goes bad, we're more than equipped to handle it. I know you guys. You'll make it work."

I hoped she was right.


	3. Brothers

**This format was suggested by (stolen from the advice of) M.G. Nemesi on Tumblr, who was kind enough to suggest the format used in "Sortis" by Ryssa1457. Thanks to all! Here's to hoping I don't screw this up…**

Death was not something Dick had thought of much at twelve years old.

It had never really occurred to him, growing up in such a colorful, garish environment as a traveling circus, that there were people out there who killed just for the pure satisfaction of knowing somebody else had suffered at their hands. Sometimes, it was for the thrill. Sometimes, it was revenge. But then, sometimes, it was just to serve the almighty dollar that made the world turn.

And Dick had never seen so much _blood_, not even that time that he cut his hand open trying to slice tomatoes for his mom. He'd never seen the color the concrete floor of an arena would turn when the crimson fluid stained it, the sickening grayish-brown and the slickness and the _smell_, like cutting up fresh deer meat. Oh, God, he wanted to cry and scream and jump so he could maybe just fall and die, but it wouldn't do a damn thing to save either one of them. He couldn't turn back the clock and catch those bullets before they tore through his parents' brains like a hot knife through butter, couldn't amend the flow of time so that maybe it would be _him_ instead—and there was just so much _blood_ on the floor, and he was sick and throwing up and _oh God did he really just see that happen—?_

He would have nightmares, sometimes, of his parents missing a swing and falling, down and down until they hit some unseen barrier and splattered like rotten fruit. He'd been scared someplace in the back of his mind that he might someday have to see the famous Flying Graysons make a deadly mistake.

But this time, it wasn't their mistake.

He thought so, anyway.

Afterward was the hospital, first and foremost. Dick was in shock, they said. He refused to eat, couldn't sleep without sedatives keeping him down all night to hold the nightmares at bay, for at least a little while. When they gave him a clean bill of health, Lieutenant…Gordon, he was pretty sure, had come by to ask him a few questions about the night his parents died. At first, he couldn't say anything. But after he managed to get a little bit of food down his throat, he felt like he at least owed them to tell Gordon about what he'd heard two nights before.

He'd been hanging around outside Mr. Haly's trailer, waiting for his dad to be finished talking to the man about some boring crap that had to do with management or something. He'd only been there maybe five minutes when he heard the argument clearly. It was his dad, for sure, and Mr. Haly, but they weren't alone. There was another man in the trailer with him, and he didn't sound happy.

"_Gotham City is a rough place, and we're just trying to make sure you circus folk insure yourselves against the wrong kind of people."_

"_Oh, I think we're looking at the wrong kind of people, Mr. Zucco. Now, get out; this circus doesn't hire petty street thugs for 'protection.'"_

Dick had heard Gordon call it "racketeering".

The prospect of being a foster child scared him a little bit. Going to a complete stranger's place to _live _for—what, the rest of his life?—was not the best-case scenario in his mind. But talking to Gordon made it sound doable. It didn't seem like so much of a nightmare with such a good man assuring him that everything would be okay.

How the hell Willis Todd was allowed custody of anything other than the plant in his windowsill was beyond Dick. And it was beyond Jason, too, which was sad considering that he was actually the man's own biological son. Willis' hands hurt the boys almost as much as his words, and shut away in the tiny second bedroom of the apartment one night, Dick had asked about it. He had honest-to-God _asked_ Jason about Willis. "So," he began quietly, pausing before he continued. "Has your dad always been like this?"

"He's not my dad," Jason had immediately snapped back. "He doesn't deserve the right to be considered my dad." He shook his head a little bit, sending greasy, stringy red hair flying. "And yeah, he's always hit me. He hates kids. I guess."

Dick watched as Jason reached under the flimsy, thin old mattress, the one that was so beat up that he could almost kind of see the springs under the material at the surface. He squinted through the darkness to see what Jason was holding, and he was leaned in so close that he started and jumped back when Jason flicked on the lighter's flame, holding it up to the cigarette dangling from his lips and igniting a spark at the end. Dick wiped at his teary face, piping up, "You're not supposed to smoke."

"You know any other way to pass the time in here?"

"But…what happens if…_he_…catches you?"

Jason deliberately blew smoke in Dick's face, and Dick just about choked on the acrid stench. "He won't. He's not bright enough. Besides, even if he does manage to find it, I don't think he'd punish me for it; he'd just take them to smoke himself."

Jason seemed unafraid of the bastardized image of the struggling American father lurking in the living room, and it baffled Dick. The man had beaten Jason nearly every day of his life, yet he refused to give up. And when Dick asked him how he could stand it, Jason had shrugged and said, as though it wasn't a huge deal, "If he won't be my father, I'll do it myself. I'm not gonna let anybody decide my worth but me." He stretched out a leg and nudged Dick lightly with his foot, as if he was the older one, giving advice to his little brother. "Hey, don't be scared of him. He cares too much about himself to ever hurt you where people will see it."

The boy couldn't have been much older than ten or eleven at the time, and Dick had been thirteen. By all accounts, _he_ should've been giving _Jason_ words of wisdom. But the sudden shift in perspective, in normalcy, was both jarring and oddly refreshing at the same time. They were both wounded kids, betrayed and scorned by a world that, if things had gone differently, they might've actually thought of as tolerable.

They didn't wait up to see if anybody was coming for them on the second day that Willis was gone. Dick and Jason both shoved everything they could find into a pair of backpacks and left the squalid apartment as quickly as possible, rejoicing at the knowledge that they were finally free. And the first few days were good to them, as long as the alleys were empty, the cops never saw them, and the food they'd pilfered from the kitchen cabinets fed them. But a week went by, and things started ending. The food supply was coming up shorter and shorter every day. The air was starting to get a little bit colder every night. Their clothes were getting a little bit more threadbare than before. And worst of all, the cops started to get smart and were hanging around the neighborhood a little more, looking for them, no doubt. When Dick and Jason moved, they kept to the backstreets, where there was less of a chance of running across an officer.

Stealing food wasn't difficult; they found out all too quickly how much they could do if their survival depended on it. Finding clothes took a little more effort than expected. But it wasn't until the alleys started getting a little more crowded that they wished they hadn't been so scared to let the police find them.

It was the dead middle of winter in Gotham City. Native citizens tended to call it "the nuclear winter", because the snow fell so thick and gray and coarse that it looked like ash, and anybody caught outside after a certain time was bound to die. Dick and Jason had no choice but to walk all night, or else risk exposure. Dick was rationing the bottle of Pepsi he'd pilfered from some idiot tourist so that he'd stay awake enough to be able to jerk Jason along behind him. The younger boy was falling asleep on his feet, too exhausted to be aware of much. If they could've curled up in some halfway-decent old storefront or apartment building, they would've, but most of them were previously occupied by winos and junkies, and Dick wasn't a fan of the notion of risking an incident. The two of them had to have been walking for two hours before the man showed up and started talking to them. "You boys look awful tired. This is no night to be out on the town."

Dick looked up from the snow to see the enormous man leaning over them, grinning almost sinisterly in an attempt at looking paternal. The whole street flashed with neon signs displaying the names of very adult bars and clubs, and despite the cold, women in too-short dresses and leather and fishnets lined the walkways, calling out to passing cars to offer their passengers a "night of fun". He glanced around, noting the scenery, and wondered how he'd gotten so mixed up to land them here.

"How about you two come along with me?" the man offered slyly, the gold chains around his neck dangling over the boys' heads as he leaned even farther over them. "I'll get you inside someplace warm, help you get nice and cozy."

"I know what 'pedophile' means," Dick blurted, not so much out of confidence as lack of much else to say.

The man just guffawed, as though he'd said something funny. "Aren't you a little comedian?"

Dick was about to start walking away, but the man already had a hold of his forearm and was pulling him, and by extension Jason, down the street, toward one of the scantily-clad women standing outside a nightclub. Raucous shouts and laughter poured out of open doors, the smell of alcohol and smoke cloyed the chilly night air, and Dick could see pictures of naked women plastered all over the walls of the clubs and the bars. He knew he wasn't supposed to be here, and he wanted to turn and run the other way, but the man was jerking him along so roughly and he couldn't break his grip.

"Selina!" the man called out. "We got a couple of guys here in need of some comfort."

He practically threw Dick and Jason at the woman, who looked down at them skeptically. "They're just kids, Wise," she pointed out, tucking a lock of short, dark hair behind her ear.

"Trust me. I think I know what I'm talking about."

"Matthew, Jonathon, thank God I found you!"

The man that was coming up now was not familiar, either, but he seemed to be talking to Dick and Jason. He ran over, smoothing back his blond hair nervously and kneeling down to embrace the boys. "Oh, your mother and I were so worried," he cried. "Don't ever go running off like that again, do you hear me?" He pulled back and looked up at Selina and Wise. "Thank you so much for finding my sons."

Selina blinked, obviously not buying it, but she responded anyway. "Don't mention it. I wouldn't want that to happen to my kid."

"You're too kind. Thanks."

The man guided them gently toward a car, murmuring along the way, "I'm not gonna hurt you, boys. I just had to get you away from them."

As they neared the vehicle, a little face pressed itself against the window. The face was small, female, and rather cute, with long black hair falling into almond-shaped brown eyes that stared wonderingly at Dick and Jason.

David Cain turned out to be a better father than Willis Todd could ever hope to be.


	4. Recon

"Okay, so, this is what we've got."

I spread the contents of the portfolio out on the kitchen table, so that everyone could see. The whole family was gathered around, crowding in close to get a look at the newest job offer. Six pairs of eyes flitted over every document, every picture, drinking in all the information. Predictably, Tim was the first to speak up. "Looks like it's gonna be quite the high-profile job," he commented.

"Yeah," I agreed. "Let's just hope it doesn't get us too far up shit creek with the streets."

Jason shrugged. "Might lose a few contacts," he said. "But it doesn't mean we can't beat a few more onto our payroll."

"What do we do about this?" Steph demanded.

"_We_ will handle it the way we always do," Helena told her. "_You_ will do the same thing you've always done: you're on background, we're on foreground."

Steph opened her mouth to say more, but Tim cut in with a very determined tone in his voice. "If anybody gets the first shot at that son of a bitch, it's me. I can already tell how this'll turn out, and I don't like it."

"Just wait your turn, kiddo. We're all gonna do our part, and then we'll discuss who goes in for it." I glanced at the paperwork again. "It _is_ a kill order, right?"

Cass nodded, pointing at one of the paragraphs of the client's letter and holding it up for me to see. I squinted across the table at it, scanning the words above her fingertip. _As you see, this is of the utmost importance to my family…justice to be served…his death will bring closure…_ I shrugged. "Yeah, okay. We can do that. So, just so we're all on the same page here, the guy we're going after is named Roman Sionis. He's apparently got a few ties to the Gotham mob…Helena? You have any input as far as that goes?"

She bit her lip. "Can't say I recognize the name, but if he's involved with them, you damn well better expect him to be well-protected and well-informed when it comes to hits and hitmen. If it's fine with everybody else, I'd like to go for recon, too, this time. I can get us around the roadblocks."

I turned to Tim and asked, "You alright with that plan?"

He nodded. "Statistically speaking, it'd be smarter, anyway. Helena's got more knowledge concerning the mob than any of us combined. As far as getting us in, she's the best bet. Keeping us in, though…I'm gonna take care of all of that. Give me three days, and I'll have whatever you need."

"Sounds like a deal," I agreed. "Lynx, Cass, who's going along on this one?"

Cass raised her hand.

"Here's to hoping we take this guy down within the week," Jason piped up.

"Steph, get the client on the line," I ordered. "We've gotta deliver the verdict."

Recon work was tough stuff, and I can't say I wasn't worried—as always—about my siblings heading out to get it done, especially considering their respective pasts. Helena and Tim were loose cannons when it came to the prospect of a lot of the things Sionis' gang reportedly mastered in, so God knew what they'd be willing to do on a recon job if provoked enough. It was either good or bad that Cass was the muscle tagging along for this one, depending on how you looked at it; she'd either rein them in or egg them on, if they got themselves stuck in the right/wrong situations. All I knew for certain was one thing: it probably wasn't the smartest idea to send in the three most issue-laden people on the team to deal with a man who'd gotten our client's daughter killed over prostitution rates. It wasn't like we really had a choice, though. Tim was the best at recon, Helena had the most knowledge of the inner workings of the Gotham mob, and Cass was hands-down one of the deadliest fighters on the face of the planet. We had a good team, but sometimes trusting them was the hardest part of it.

Three days couldn't have dragged by slower if they'd weighed a thousand tons each and were being pulled along by a semi almost out of gasoline, and when my siblings finally returned, Cass and Helena practically had to drag Tim out of the car. He was weak, pale, and out of breath, and as they neared the front door of the house, he lifted a hand to rub at his chest.

I didn't let them get even halfway up the walk before I was out to meet them, guiding Tim to lean against my body. He made a painful sort of noise in the back of his throat, and I soothed, "Shhh, I got you. I got you."

"He was a real trooper, Dick," Helena commented behind me. I could hear the satisfied smile in her words. "It was tough for him, what with the stuff they were passing around. But he resisted."

"Proud…to be…clean," Tim panted. "Going on…three years…right, Dick?"

"Yeah, and I'm proud of you, too, sport. Let's get inside so you can rest."

I was as gentle as possible with my little brother, but it was like his legs were made of lead. He was too preoccupied with the chest pains to try to walk a little bit. I ended up pretty much carrying him into the house. I was standing in the entryway when Jason looked up from the couch. He took one glance before standing up and running upstairs, hollering, "Steph! Lynx! Get down here!"

I deposited Tim on the couch and peeled the blanket off the back of the couch to spread over him. He settled in, looking up at me with tired eyes that were somehow as full of determination as ever. "Promise me that I'm the one who gets to off the bastard," he murmured.

"Sorry, Tim," I replied, shaking my head. "You're not putting a lot of faith into me as far as your health goes."

"Did we get anything good on him?" Steph cut in as she pounded down the stairs after Jason. Lynx followed closely behind them.

I gestured to Tim, Helena, and Cass. Steph's enormous blue eyes turned to them in the next instant, and Cass motioned for Helena to start off. She sighed heavily. "Well, at least the client was right about Sionis' ties to the Mafia. You can see their calling card all over his operations. It's just that we didn't know _how_ cozy he was with them until this job came along. He's not just in bed with the Mafia; he's had sex and reproduced with the Mafia."

"And the offspring turned out to be the spawn of Satan," Tim remarked, taking a glass of water that Lynx held out to him.

Jason raised an eyebrow, half amused. "Is it really that bad?" he asked.

"Yes," Tim said firmly, pausing to sip his water. "Think _Guys and Dolls_, but with an added element of depravity. Girls no older than sixteen stripping and topless-dancing, accepting money for an 'upstairs tour', guys about my age gambling and passing out drugs…you should've seen it. Actually, no, I'm glad you _didn't_ see it. I was about to tear the place apart." He rubbed at his nose, grimacing. "I can still smell the smoke from the weed," he complained.

Cass reached out to rub his shoulders. "Take it easy, kiddo," Helena advised, mussing his hair a little bit.

"If the operation's as big as you say," Lynx started, "it would probably be wisest to exploit it for the job. Think about it; how often must somebody overdose? I doubt anyone would think much about a chance slip-up." The slyness in her voice would've been enough to make anybody nervous.

Cass shook her head, pantomiming firing a rifle. Helena nodded her agreement. "Cass is right," she said. "The security's too heavy, thanks to our friendly neighborhood mob men. They'd be expecting a poison hit. Our only option is to go traditional, fill his brain with a bullet."

"That's just as risky as poison," Steph pointed out. "Depending on where he's at when the hit's executed, they'd also be expecting a rooftop sniper. You're gonna have to go in fast and hard where there's a crowd to conceal your movements and cover of darkness to hide anything else. You found him in a nightclub, right?"

Helena nodded.

"Then it's settled," I interjected. "Lynx, Helena, Jason, and I will go after him tomorrow night at the club."

"What about me?" Tim demanded, struggling to sit up and falling back onto the couch as a coughing fit wracked his thin frame.

"You're staying here to catch up on sleep," Jason informed him, before I even got a chance to open my mouth to say anything. "Trust us; you need it. We don't want you getting worse."

Tim blasted a puff of air up into the stray hairs hanging over his eyes, pouting. "I never get to come anymore," he grumbled.

_That's because you're getting sicker and sicker every day, _I thought. But I didn't say it.

* * *

><p>Later on, I found myself sitting in the living room, watching TV. <em>Terminator 2: Judgment Day<em> was my favorite movie of all time, and Tim had been watching it with me—until he fell asleep about twenty minutes in, that is. He was curled up beneath the blanket, his head pillowed on the armrest of the couch and his left arm draped over the edge of the cushions. I listened carefully, beneath the noises of Sarah Connor's shooting spree, heard the shallow and irregular breaths, and winced not-so-internally. "Oh, Timmy," I whispered. "What am I gonna do with you?"

As if in answer, Steph slapped a pile of papers down in front of me on the coffee table. "Do you know what infective endocarditis is?" she asked softly.

I shook my head slowly, picking up the papers to sift through them.

"It's a heart condition," Steph explained, "in which bacteria or other microorganisms invade the bloodstream and attach to areas of the heart, mostly abnormal valves or damaged tissues. Symptoms include fatigue, fever, chills, paleness, shortness of breath, persistent cough, and shortness of breath. Sometimes, the bacteria actually cause the formation of pus pockets called abscesses in other areas such as the brain, liver, kidneys, and spleen. If untreated, infective endocarditis could lead to permanent destruction of the heart's inner lining, which in turn leads to heart failure if no treatment is procured. And infections of the heart's lining and valves aren't uncommon in recovering heroin addicts."

"What are you saying, Steph?"

"I'm _saying_ that we need to get Tim to a heart doctor as soon as possible. If we just leave this alone, he may not live to see many more years. This"—she gestured to Tim's sleeping form on the couch—"could be a sign of something serious."

I sighed. "You know we don't have the money for a heart doctor. And even if we did, we couldn't take him there. What if somebody recognized him? Then what'd happen to him, to the rest of us?"

Steph glared at me with a look on her face that was not entirely dissimilar to incredulous indignation. "Food for thought, Dick," she said coldly, after a long pause. "You might want to consider that before you send Tim out again."

And with that, she stood up and stalked away, back up the stairs to her bedroom.

I stayed in the living room. The movie was still playing on the TV, but I wasn't interested in it so much as the research Steph had given me. I spared a glance at Tim, watched him twist under the blanket a little bit before settling back in. He looked so small, so innocent…he actually looked nineteen, if not a little younger.

Maybe…maybe a heart doctor wouldn't be as much as I thought. The Sionis job could save us. All I had to do was wait a single day.

**Sources will be available in a Works Cited page after the close of the story.**


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